


Atonement

by bell (bellaboo), bellaboo, usomitai (bellaboo)



Series: Confessions [3]
Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-06
Updated: 2007-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/bellaboo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellaboo/pseuds/usomitai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To save House, Wilson has to dirty his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Atonement

Wilson was unable to hold the question in any longer. “Why Tritter?”

“You want the obscene, the funny, or the non-of-your-business answer?” House replies.

“What if I—“ Wilson stops there, the thought in his mind but the repulsion impeding its verbalization. He makes the offer because he has to, because he’ll do anything for House, but he doesn’t actually think that he can fulfill it.

“What if what?” House asks, sardonic. Wilson thinks that it’s cruel of him. He knows perfectly well what he’s suggesting, and how difficult it is for him. And he mocks his sincere efforts. “Tell me, Wilson, what if you what?”

“What if—“ He couldn’t say it. There aren’t any words backing up his idea; there is only the dread and the resolve to do it. He can see it, visualize it, but he cannot get any further than that. The fear locks it in him, and it cannot get out. Not like this.

So Wilson just slaps him.

The smack resounds in Wilson’s head, but he knows that the force is nothing. House barely flinches. “You hit like a girl,” he says, “only worse.”

House is so smug in his assessment that he does not predict the second slap, this one not as loud and much harder, across his other cheek. Wilson’s palm smarts afterwards and he flexes his fist repeatedly, opening and closing and opening. He imagines that the throbbing in his hand is equal to what House is feeling. House touches his face, fingers grazing over the redness. “Getting better.”

“I can’t do this,” Wilson blurts out. House’s gaze hardens and he wishes he could take back what he said. Wilson does want to do whatever he can to help him, he really does, but this goes against all of his instincts. If Wilson could have it his way, they would sit down for long, therapeutic conversations. But it’s not up to him. “I’m sorry—I can’t.”

“You don’t have it in you,” House agrees, and he sounds resigned. To be resigned he must have had some hope, Wilson reasons. House had been hoping Wilson could do this for him. Wilson, for the first time since he can remember, could do something for his only friend, except that he can’t. “You bleed too much.”

It was his compassion getting in the way. If Wilson didn’t care so much, if he didn’t care at all, then he could do what was needed. Then again, if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t think twice about helping House. He wouldn’t be in this dilemma.

All this takes but a second to run through Wilson’s mind and even before the thoughts have finished processing, he’s already reaching for House’s wrist, stopping him from opening the door and leaving. “Let me try again.”

House’s eyes flick down to where Wilson is tentatively holding him and then flick back up to look Wilson straight in the eyes. “This isn’t so much about permission. Either you do it or you don’t.”

Wilson tightens his hold, his other hand closing up automatically, clenching into a fist out of nervousness and fear. “I need to know that it’s alright.”

“Wilson,” House drawls, “I thought you too old to believe that there’s gold at the rainbow’s end and that canaries sing happily in their cages.” Wilson gets the message: there is no alright. What he wants to do for House isn’t right. Wilson doesn’t know what to do. He stands there, confused, refusing to let House go, but unable to do anything beyond that. If he could, he’d freeze this moment and take time to ponder the best course of action. But he can’t afford to freeze, even if he is already frozen, and he has to make his choice now.

“I’m going to—“ He doesn’t know what he’s going to do.

“Whatever it is, could you get on with it?” House asks, brows coming together in a sign of irritation. Wilson releases his hold on House, who rubs his wrist and looks away. House opens his mouth and then closes it again, pulling in his lips between his teeth and biting. Wilson can almost feel his frustration and embarrassment. House had revealed so much of himself, in all but verbally admitting his need for violence. And the fact that Wilson couldn’t bring himself to fulfill that need was a declaration of reprehension. Disapproval. Belittling. Wilson looks away as well, ashamed to increase House’s self-consciousness. He doesn’t want it to be this way.

“House.” Wilson says, plainly. He looks back again at him, an automatic response to hearing his name, and that’s when Wilson smashes his fist into his abdomen. Wilson, his features trained to stay still, watches House’s every reaction: his eyes opening wide with shock and his gasping from the pain. He stumbles, and Wilson catches him.

House quickly regains his balance and stands up straight. There’s this grin on his face that sets Wilson’s stomach sinking. “Not bad.” Wilson isn’t quite sure what the appropriate response here should be, and he settles for a tight-lipped smile. “Oh, come on,” House says, tapping Wilson on the shoulder, “You don’t have to act like you like it. It’s like the milk you stole was spoiled but you don’t dare spit it out and admit to the crime.”

“Will this keep you from seeing Tritter?” Wilson asks, serious, refusing to adopt House’s sudden whimsical attitude.

House shrugs. “Maybe.”

As always, House can’t give him a guarantee of any kind. Wilson wonders how he could have let himself get this tied to a man this chaotic, when he himself relies on solid foundation. It’s too late for these kinds of bewilderments, however. This is where he is. Where they are. And the possibility that House might give up that abusive relationship was more progress than Wilson had had dared hope. “Alright,” Wilson says, and repeats, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

And then House is kissing him, which is a blissfully silent activity, and Wilson reciprocates tentatively, softly. This is thoroughly more palatable than the punching.

House pulls back for a second, eyebrow raised. “I like it rough,” he admonishes, and goes back to kissing. Wilson again wonders how he got himself here and again reminds himself that it’s far too late for regrets. He loves House and will do anything for him; that’s all there is to it. And so he bites House’s lip and shoves him onto the couch, because he knows that’s what he wants; it doesn’t matter how sick it makes him feel.

 

II.

The cruelty gets both easier and harder. Easier because Wilson, with the aid of repetition, can fall into routine and numb his awareness of what’s happening. Harder because his actions have accumulative effect, and every time he thinks of what he’s doing, the guilt only grows.

It isn’t anything regular; weeks can pass without incident. The only trigger is House’s bouts of self-hatred, and those can be set off anytime, anywhere, in any way. It then falls to Wilson to quell those urges for punishment. There is no set routine for that either. It can take as little as a slap or as much as several hours of rough play before House feels cleansed of whatever it is he needs to get out of his system.

Whatever they do, Wilson is never once aroused, though usually House himself ends up sporting an erection. Wilson solves that with either a blow or hand-job.

They don’t touch each other when House doesn’t need the hurt.

Wilson still loves him, but doesn’t feel comfortable with him anymore. He finds that he can barely look House in the eyes when the occasion doesn’t demand it. His own guilt for hitting him, even if it is what House wanted, makes his head hang low. And House, in reaction to Wilson’s evident humiliation, eviscerates him verbally. It doesn’t make for an untroubled friendship.

And yet, whenever House comes to him with manic movements and wild eyes, Wilson drops everything, finds them a quiet, private place, and starts in with whatever seems to be the proportionally correct response.

 

III.

His hand strays. Wilson doesn’t know how this happened; every blow he delivers is forced out of him and it takes all of his will to hit House. Yet somehow his control slips and the strike gets House against his right eye. His skin turns white at first, but after the initial shock, a hint of red overtakes the area.

Wilson’s first reaction is to say, “Oh god,” and to get him ice to reduce the swelling. It is an injury no worse than any he’s administered over the past month, but it will be the first public one. Wilson can’t imagine others seeing the evidence. He doesn’t want to have to see it himself. Bad enough that he’s exposed to all the hurts he’s caused House when they’re together like this; worse to have to have it out in the open.

But House, having no sense whatsoever of discretion or propriety, doesn’t let Wilson take any steps to lessen the coming bruising. “Don’t stop,” he grunts, and Wilson obeys, more careful than ever to hit him where the clothing will hide the marks.

By the next morning, the bruise is spectacular.

“I’ll tell them I was in a bar fight,” House says. He is cheerful, like he always is after a good session of being thoroughly beaten up. Early on Wilson had asked why House simply didn’t give up the Vicodin, if the pain was so beneficial to his emotional status. He said that Wilson didn’t understand a thing. Wilson still tries to figure out this masochistic streak, but he feels that he is missing a vital piece of information that would grant all this sense.

“Tell them that you accidentally whacked yourself with your cane. It’s more believable.”

House isn’t the only one who gets asked about the bruise. Wilson is followed the whole next day by those who want the inside scoop on what happened to Dr. House _this_ time. Wilson delivers any number of explanations: a bar fight; trick with the cane gone wrong; a misstep in the dark and an unfortunate encounter with a door; an angry patient.

Wilson even tells some that that he got in an argument with House and let his anger get the best of him. That way, the more outrageous rumors would fade out as people compared notes. “But _Wilson_ said—“ and they’d all think each other liars.

Unfortunately, Cuddy wasn’t so easily fooled.

“I’m worried about House,” she says point-blank, after inviting Wilson to a private discussion in her office. “I have good reason that House has been…” she pauses to find the right way to phrase her thoughts. “Unwell. More than usual. Wilson, I think he’s being _beaten_.”

She hisses that last part, and it is only because Wilson has dreaded this very confrontation since the first slap he laid on House that he doesn’t fall to his knees and confess to everything. But he can’t let anyone know. Nobody can know, ever, that James. Evan Wilson abuses his best friend. The shame hurts as it is now, with the secret just between him and House. He couldn’t imagine what it’d be like if anyone else knew. “What makes you say that?” he says seriously, combining concern and skepticism.

“There’s that black eye, for one,” Cuddy starts. “And his fellows have been getting glimpses of other bruises and cuts on him. They’ve been seeing them for weeks now, and they’re in unusual places—it looks like it’s something regular, almost—“

“He doesn’t use a cane in his apartment,” Wilson interrupts, frightened of the direction in which Cuddy’s train of thought is headed. “He can be klutzy.”

“No,” Cuddy says. “No, he isn’t. I’ve never seen him be klutzy, and he’s as dexterous as ever. You don’t know what it is, Wilson, that could explain this?”

Wilson swears up and down that he is clueless.

“You’ll ask him, won’t you?” Cuddy said, and for all of Wilson’s desperation to keep this information secret, he feels a sudden remorse in keeping her worrying like this. “He trusts you. I’ve tried asking him, but he won’t answer me seriously.”

“I’ll try,” Wilson promises, “But I probably won’t get better results.”

That night he tells House about Cuddy’s concerns. “They’re going to find out,” he blurts out, “they’ll find out and—“

“And so what?” House asks. “They can call us Sid and Nancy. You’re Nancy, of course. Rhymes with ‘pansy.’”

“Don’t you get it? If they know, my, our careers will be ruined—“

“It’s hardly the first time you sacrificed your career for me. What’s one more time?”

“Don’t ask this of me,” Wilson begs. “Not this. I’ll do anything for you, but not this.”

“You already _do_ do anything for me.”

“I could stop,” and just the idea of it feels liberating. “Then you wouldn’t have who to fuck you over.”

“Not as if you fuck me now,” and Wilson winces at the explicit complaint of an issue they normally left unmentioned. Not once has Wilson hardened enough for penetration. Because they don’t really talk about what they’re doing, up until now he’s pretended that it was a non-issue, despite his own fears that if he couldn’t deliver the full package, House would find others who could. “And sure I’ve got someone else. He’s nowhere near as prissy as you. Now _he_ knows how to smack someone around.”

Wilson has no room for bargaining. He can’t quit—and that brief sense of liberation he’d had but seconds ago quickly vanishes—and he has nothing else to offer. Though House is the one with all the unreasonable desires and needs, all the advantages are on his side. Wilson has to find a way to turn the tables. But later. Later. There are more immediate concerns. As he strides over to House, he mentally disengages himself from his body, as he has been doing all too frequently lately.

Wilson grabs House by the throat, digging his thumb into the hollow of his collar bone. Not the right place for suffocation, but it does block air and it hurts like a bitch. House’s hands fly, automatically, towards Wilson’s, grasping them lightly, but he doesn’t stop the strangling.

“First all of all, this _will_ remain a secret. Second, you’re not going back to him. Got that?” Wilson presses in harder, his thumb slipping vertically and blocking even more air. House nods, breathing shallowly. “Good. Because I’m not letting you go.”

And that’s when Wilson realizes the truth of it. He isn’t ever going to let House go. It’s too dangerous. House is safest under Wilson’s incompetent care and he isn’t going to relinquish what control he has over him, no matter what he has to do to keep it. He digs his thumb in even tighter. “You’re stuck with me.”

Odd, to use precisely what House asks of him as a threat. It’s like promising to hand over all your money to someone who holds a gun to your hand: redundant. But still, with House choking, it feels a little something like power.


End file.
